In Muggle World
by Daedalus Plum
Summary: What if Harry made friends with someone in the muggle world? When a girl named Gillian gets caught up in Harry's world of magic, Harry gets a link to the muggle world that will prove invaluable. Warning: OC
1. Gillian's History

Gillian lived in one of the most disenchanting places in all of Europe. She lived at number 12 Magnolia Crescent in Little Whinging, in a neighborhood not unlike others, with houses not unlike the neighbors'. She had lived there for a large part of her life; fifteen years now. Gillian had come there as an infant, adopted from St. Paul's Children's Home by the Polkisses.

Mrs. Polkiss had been in her thirties at the time, married for ten years, and had been desperately attempting to conceive for most of them. She was short, dark-haired and thin, with small eyes and wiry framed glasses. She had a wispy sort of look, as though a breeze could take her away. Sean Polkiss, her husband, looked oddly similar to his wife. He was short, his dark hair peaked in a high, receding hairline, and he wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. After ten years, they had decided that having their own child was not a possibility, and at any rate, at their age, it could prove dangerous. So they adopted Gillian. She was young, so they could raise her as their own, and she even looked like them: overly thin and dark-haired. It would be best, they decided, to not tell her that she was adopted.

But things such as this do not always work out for a happily ever after.

A month after adopting Gillian, the Polkisses discovered that they had a child of their own on the way.

They already had Gillian, now, a daughter whom they loved dearly. They could not bear to give her up, but even they knew that things could not be as they had hoped.

And so, as the anxiety of the new baby swelled in the household, Gillian was all but forgotten, and the Polkisses were careless about their decision not to tell her she wasn't theirs. And so, Gillian grew up as the child they had not truly wanted, overshadowed by the child they had longed for for so long.

And, thus, a few weeks before Gillian's first birthday, Piers was born.

Piers was a spitting image of his parents, and they loved him for it.

When they were both young, they may have been mistaken for twins, Piers and Gillian. But as Gillian grew older, her resemblance to the family faded. She was still dark-haired and thin, but the girl grew too tall to be a part of their family, and her eyes, blue in her infancy, had grown to a dark brown, almost black -- not to mention the strange tendencies she had developed.

As a child, she read a curious amount at an early age but not the normal books for young children. The first book she read was not about a dog named Spot, but Beauty and the Beast. Not only that, but the girl played make believe constantly and, as far as the Polkisses could tell, had no less than four imaginary friends. Her parents often worried that the little girl was unaware of the difference between the real and the imaginary.

And while Gillian played in her fantastic world of make believe, the Polkisses looked on, somewhat concerned about her inability to bond with the other children. At the same time their son interacted with the neighboring children on a regular basis. He would push them, bite them, and steal food from them whenever he could, and cried if he couldn't get his way. And, as happens with most parents faced with a difficult child, they didn't see anything wrong. They considered this normal, healthy toddler behavior.

Now, with Gillian 15 years old, Piers 14, nothing had changed. Gillian had stopped her make believe games as far as the Polkisses could tell, but she still was a loner who had never brought home a single friend. Piers, on the other hand, had his own group of friends that he visited daily. In truth, the visits consisted of beating up younger children, vandalizing the town park and throwing stones at passersby. But the Polkisses didn't know this and were pleased with their son. And, though they loved Gillian, they could not bring themselves to love her as much as their own, oh-so-popular boy. So, on the whole, they ignored her, and she was perfectly content with this.


	2. A Cold Presence

Gillian was walking down Magnolia Crescent on her way to the park close to her home. It was an unbearably hot summer day, and turning into an unbearably hot summer night, but this didn't bother her. Everything about the summer had been that way.

The air was dusty with dirt from the parched and dying grass, causing her to cough painfully to clear her throat of the grime. She saw some people look out of their windows at her. She smiled. How sick she must seem, so skinny, coughing and pale. The neighbors weren't fond of Gillian, and she didn't attempt to change that in any way. She wore mostly black, often loose fitting clothes, and seemed to disappear inside of them.

As she turned the corner to the park, she saw that somebody was already there on the swings. Normally, this wouldn't have bothered her; there was still the merry-go round, which she liked to sit on and spin to stop thinking about the present and this disappointing world. But this wasn't just anybody sitting at the park. She hurried back around the corner again, and hoped he hadn't noticed her. The someone sitting there was a tall, black-haired, bespectacled boy. The Potter boy.

She peaked around the corner again, intrigued that she was so close to him. He was said to be big trouble, although nobody actually knew anything about him except that up until he was eleven years old he had been in normal school. Afterwards, however, he was sent off to some special school for delinquents during the normal school year. She had gone to school with him up until he left. She remembered that he was quiet, often distracted in class, and got into trouble for all sorts of weird things.

She also remembered his cousin Dudley. He was one of Piers' friends, and the meanest of them, as far as she could tell when she saw their gang at it. She almost felt sorry for Harry for a moment, since anybody growing up with Dudley and that horribly mundane Dursley family probably didn't have a chance. But this feeling didn't last long: she remembered the story she had heard about his scar.

Rumor was that he got the thin scar cut down his forehead in a fight in grade school. Apparently, before they had ever had class together, he had instigated a fight with another student. Harry had attacked him on the school grounds, apparently beating him up until the kid had to be sent to a doctor for stitches. When a teacher came over to see what had happened, Harry apparently ran, hiding on the school rooftop. When he was told to get down, he smiled and jumped down a whole story, deliberately, cutting his head when he landed.

She had grown up with someone almost as terrible as Dudley. Piers was no cup of tea. And thus far, she hadn't attacked anybody or jumped from high buildings to hurt those around her. Gillian's pity for the boy passed.

She turned back around the corner and made her way up Magnolia Crescent again. She was sort of upset that she had to head home, especially when she saw Pier's gang stop at the crossing in front of her, and say their goodbyes. Piers started walking towards her.

"Hiya, Gillian," he said, in a voice that was bound to start trouble.

She wasn't in the mood. She swept her hair back, behind her shoulders, looked up at the sky, and quickly doubled back towards the park.

"Mum and Dad are going to be mad at you if you're late again!" called Piers, but she kept walking towards the only place she could. Even facing Harry Potter was better than letting Piers try to get to her.

Heading back towards Wisteria Walk, she was relieved to see that the park was empty now. She took a seat on the last unbroken swing and stared at the ground, with an expression that said, as she looked at the dirt, 'This is as good as it gets'.

But as Gill contemplated the waves of self-pity and woe that washed over her, she was jerked awake by very loud, very inappropriate screams. After all, it was almost 9:00! She jumped up. The screams didn't sound angry. They sounded scared. She began running toward Wisteria Walk, to help whoever was screaming, not quite aware that a skinny 15-year-old girl wouldn't be much help against whatever it was.

Suddenly, as the yells drew near, a terrible dark washed over her accompanied by a dreadful cold and a sick unhappiness the likes of which she had never felt, in all her glum. With all her strength, she continued forward, desperate to help. She could _sense_ something around her. A presence…an eerie, unshakeable presence, and a sound like a death rattle, as she became colder and colder. Gillian shivered and lurched to her knees, suddenly vomiting in the street. There was a tempted pause in the presence, and she felt as though she could feel something standing over her, although she couldn't stand to look up. She was relieved when the feeling suddenly dulled, fading away. But she was seized with fear again when she felt the invisible beast move towards…towards what? Two figures in the dark. One of them was standing, clutching something in its hand, and the other was behind it a bit, closer to her, cowering. Suddenly, she heard the standing figure say something, something she couldn't understand, and a silvery, misty sort of light appeared in front of him, lighting up his face. He did it again and again. But whatever he was trying to do, it didn't help. With the last of her strength, Gillian crawled into an alley between two homes not far off. And, there, she fainted.


	3. Tombstones and Cauldrons

**Chapter 3: Tombstones and Cauldrons**

When Gillian came to, it was completely dark, although the natural kind that comes with night. She felt ill, and shook as she stood up. She tried hard to remember why she was there. The last thing she could remember was Harry Potter's lit up face, and then a silvery stag, looking at her curiously before galloping away. She wasn't sure if this had been a dream or not. But Harry was definitely there. And...(she gulped as she remembered)...there had been something else there...a dark something else that glided through the night, in an eerie, soul-crushing presence. She shuddered and attempted to shake the memory. She had to hurry home. It was bound to be late, and she was sure to be in trouble.

But on her way back, all she could think about was Harry Potter, and that terrible feeling that she could never be happy again.

Gillian was right about being in trouble. Her parents had the whole act down to the last tear; a scene straight from some teen movie: the parents, sitting in the front room, lights out, staring at the door with expressions of worry and anger mingled on their faces. Gillian didn't try to sneak in. She came in, just as you please, and walked straight into the front room where the light beside the couch flicked on.

Mrs. Polkiss was on the couch, face wet with tears, with Mr. Polkiss standing beside her, looking at Gillian angrily. He asked coolly, "What do you have to say for yourself, Gillian?"

Gillian glanced at the clock on the wall. It was one in the morning. She was shocked that she had been out for so long. She looked at her dad and shook her head.

"Nothing?" he demanded, his voice rising. "You have no explanation for this? My God, Gillian, how about telling us where you have been! Look at your mother! We've both been worried sick about you!"

Gillian still didn't know what to say. Who would believe the truth? But she tried anyway. She never was a good liar. "Well, I was heading home with Piers when," she knew she couldn't tell them their son was a nasty bully unless she wanted it to get worse, so she tried weakly, "when- I remembered that I had...um...left something at the park. So I doubled back to get it. And…well, while I was there I heard yells just off on Wisteria Walk." 'Please believe me!' she thought desperately, "And, so, I went to see what was the matter, because they sounded scared. And when I went around I saw Dudley Dursley and" (this was the part she was dreading to tell them) "Harry Potter."

The reaction was immediate. Her mother let out a sort of wail and her father stumbled in his pacing. "You got tangled up with that Potter boy?" he demanded weakly.

"No!" said Gillian quickly. "No! He didn't know I was there! But anyway, it wasn't him causing the trouble. There was--" she thought quickly about how to describe to her parents what the threat had been. She couldn't very well to them that she was attacked by the dark. "—there was a man there," she continued shakily, "dressed all in black, like—I don't know—a kidnapper or something. Just not a nice person."

At this point, she remembered that her own clothes were solid black. She hoped they didn't notice this. "But, um, you see, he was advancing on them. And then he saw me, and--" 'Think fast!', she told herself, "--and he hit me! On the head with...something, I couldn't tell what it was. But I was flung back into an alleyway, and I guess I fell unconscious or something. Because it wasn't even totally dark when this happened and when I woke up it was pitch black out! I came home as soon as I could. I don't even know what happened to Dudley and Harry.

"I think they got away, though," she added earnestly, "because I could sort of hear what was going on when I was knocked out. It kind of got into my dreams like when you're barely asleep. Someone came along, and," she thought for a moment, "well, helped them get away. I think that Dudley had started fighting them, and they got hurt. I don't know, I didn't see the whole thing, but," she finished lamely, with a desperate look at her parents, "that's what happened."

She waited for their reactions, which seemed delayed after taking all of this in. Then, after a moment's contemplation, her mother beckoned her forward. "Let me see your head," she said calmly.

Gillian came forward, her own hand running over a lump on the back of her head from where she had fallen backward onto the pavement in the alleyway when she had fainted. Her mother felt her head where she had been running her hand and gasped. "Sean," she said desperately, "her head! Sean, her head! There's a lump! She was telling the truth!" and with that, she broke down into tears, grasping Gillian tightly around the neck in a sort of strangling hug.

"Oh! Anne, come here!" he said, coming forward, and trying to get a hold on his wife.

"No, Sean! No! Think about what could have happened to her! I would never have expected something like--like _this_ to happen in our neighborhood!"

"Come on, Anne. It's all right. She's fine. You need to get some sleep Come now, we'll talk to the Dursleys in the morning to make sure the boys are fine." He took his wife's hands, and started guiding her up the stairs. He glanced wearily down at Gillian.

"Why don't you go to bed, too, Gill," he said, "You've had a long night."

And with that Gill headed off to bed, a new fear taking hold of her. What would the Dursleys say? She had almost no doubt that they would deny anything of the sort happened. And what then? She lay awake for what seemed like hours, unsure of when she actually fell asleep. All she knew was that she wished she hadn't.

In her sleep that night, she visited a graveyard. It was old, and small, but there was a large tombstone in it. Also, she could see, indistinctly, robed figures nearby, watching something that the tombstone was blocking from sight. She began walking toward them to get a better look when her foot nudged something. She looked down and started to scream in horror. It was a person—dead. Just lying right there on the ground, apparently forgotten. And not far from his left hand was a golden cup. Gill couldn't control her screaming, but no one seemed to notice her.

She stumbled away from the boy—the dead boy hardly older than her. She could barely see by the time she had reached the tombstone. She grasped at the stone, clinging to it for support. She walked around to the front of it, leaning back against the stone as the robed figures stared at something in their semi-circle. It was a large cauldron, bubbling and frothing…and a boy tied to the largest headstone in the graveyard. She stared at the boy, hidden in shadow, trying to make out who it was. But her attention was pulled elsewhere when, suddenly, she saw something rise from the cauldron. "Robe me," said a high cold voice. This time, she screamed louder than before.

She jerked up out of bed, still screaming. Her own voice had woken her. She lay gasping in bed as she heard footsteps approaching hurriedly. Her parents rushed into the room.

"What's the matter?" they kept asking, but she couldn't answer them. She had dissolved into tears, with her mother holding her, trying to comfort her. But nothing would work. She couldn't even sort out her own thoughts for comfort. The only thing she could think clearly was a single word, running through her head. She had never heard it before, but she knew what it was.

'Voldemort…Voldemort… Voldemort… Voldemort...'


	4. Welcome to Therapy

Gillian didn't sleep that night. It had been three o'clock when the dream had woken her. Her parents had gone shakily back to bed, but Gill went down to the living room and turned on the television, comforted by the noise. She stared at the ceiling, lost in thought and a memory that was not her own. 'Why did I see that?' she thought to herself. 'What happened on Wisteria Way? And,' (most importantly 'who or _what_ is Harry Potter, and why was he in my dream?')

The dream wasn't like others she had had. It didn't shy from reality in the waking hours, but the blurred edges sharpened themselves making more sense as she woke. She could tell, now, that the boy tied to the large headstone had been Harry Potter. She knew it was all connected to him, that he had been the key figure in the dream. 'He would know,' she thought, 'who the dead boy was and why I was there.'

Around nine in the morning the next day, Gillian kissed both of her parents on the cheek and said she was going to the park. They watched anxiously after her but let her go. It was daytime, the neighborhood was awake and the park wasn't far from the house. Plus, she'd be safe with the neighborhood on the watch; that morning, no too long before Gillian left, they had called all of their neighbors whose numbers they knew and warned them. They had told them to warn everyone they knew. The news traveled quickly, it was wonderful gossip. "A man," they were told, "was spotted last night on Magnolia Crescent and he attacked Gillian Polkiss!"

The Polkisses had decided to go and visit the Dursleys that afternoon, but Gillian wanted to get to them first; she was going to see Harry Potter.

She arrived at the Dursleys and hesitated. They didn't really know her, and Harry definitely didn't. How would they react to her coming and asking about what had happened last night? Nonetheless, she rang the doorbell. She heard labored footsteps inside and soon a large, purple-faced man with an over-sized mustache opened the door.

"Yes?" demanded Mr. Dursley.

"Hi!" she said, trying to feign cheeriness. "I'm Gillian Polkiss, Piers' sister. And, well, I was wondering if I could have a word with--" she faltered.

"Yes?" said Vernon again. He was still impatient, but had brightened up when she had said she was a Polkiss.

"I was wondering," she went on bravely, "if I could have a word with Harry Potter."

She watched his face. It grew even ruddier, purple and splotchy. It was contorted with fear and anger. "Harry," he hissed through closed teeth, "does not take visitors," and he slammed the door in her face.

She sighed audibly, and walked away. She glanced back up in the house and saw Harry watching the sky through his window, almost expectantly. He hadn't noticed her. She toyed with the idea of throwing a pebble and getting his attention, but decided better of it. The others were sure to hear, and she didn't want to get into trouble with them.

She walked to the park, and onto the merry-go-round. She laid back on it, staring up at the sky while turning slowly, wondering. It did not seem appropriate to look at the ground anymore and compare the world to the dirt. It had just grown a lot more interesting.

That evening, when the Polkisses returned from their talk with the Dursleys, they looked at Gillian pityingly. They recounted the details.

"Well, they weren't to happy to see us," said Anne, "and when we started telling them about last night, what you had seen, they said they had heard the rumors, and denied that anybody in their house had anything to do with it, and suggested that you need to see a therapist," she sighed. "They said that you had come by earlier, too," (Gillian's stomach knotted) "asking to talk with Harry Potter."

They both looked at her accusingly. Gillian nodded. They both sighed. "Gill," said her dad, "I realize that it must be hard for you. Being adopted, never having known your parents. And we understand that we may not have been as good of parents to you as we should have been," his voice suddenly sounded higher, as though choking back a sob, "but you can't go looking for attention this way. Making up stories, and putting yourself in harm's way. Dear," he took her hand, "we do try, and we don't want to see you hurt or in trouble. So please, forget this whole thing. And forget about Harry Potter."

She looked at them both in disbelief. She had expected this, but, still, she couldn't stand it. It had happened! And not only was Harry Potter there, but now she was seeing him in dreams that didn't seem like dreams at all! And they were telling her to forget it? What about the boy, lying dead, spread-eagled on the ground? What about the cauldron, giving birth to a man, an evil, to Voldemort...

Gillian's eyes filled with tears, and she began choking on her cries. She couldn't live like that! She couldn't forget what she had seen! And in her hopelessness, Gillian had failed to pick up on one finer detail they had slipped in.

"A _therapist_?" she cried, as they drove into the city. "Mom! Dad! I don't need to go to a therapist! The Dursleys are the ones who need to go! They're the ones who are in denial because they don't want their neighbors to talk! I don't need this! I told you what happened, I told you what I saw! I wasn't making it up," (completely) "I was telling the truth!" (as much of it as I thought you could handle).

They didn't answer, and she threw herself against the back seat in frustration. Piers was smirking at her from beside her. She stuck her tongue out at him, and he smiled that awful smile even wider. "So if you're not making it up, then you're seeing things, are you?" he whispered. "And you think we shouldn't take you to the psycho-quack because of that? You're madder than I thought, Gill."

She turned away from him, and looked out her window, huffily. It wasn't fair. They didn't believe the truth, even after she put it in a way they could handle. And what if she told the whole truth, now? They'd probably put her in a straightjacket and toss her into a padded-room.

They arrived at a large, white building. They parked the car across the street, and headed up to it. Gillian walked slowly behind them. Maybe if they were late, they would miss her appointment. After checking with the receptionist, who smiled at them with in an empty, tired sort of way, they got onto the elevator and started for the tenth floor. 'Let the elevator break,' thought Gillian, 'Let the power go out. Make it stop, please…!'

But it didn't stop. They arrived in perfect time for her appointment. They checked in with Dr. Clark's receptionist now, who waved Gillian back into his room. "Don't worry, Ms. Polkiss. Dr. Clark is very kind. He'll help you through this."

Dr. Clark was a fat, balding man, with a pencil and pad of paper. "Ah, Gillian," he began, "Do you mind if I call you, Gillian? Well of course you don't, and you can call me Ted."

Gillian glared at him. "I do mind you calling me Gillian. I wish you to address me as Miss Polkiss, Dr. Clark."

He looked at her, unruffled by her malice and chuckled, writing something down on his paper.

"Fine, then, Miss Polkiss, as you wish. Now why don't you tell me what happened that brought you here?"

So that was how he was going to play? She knew this dance. She reclined back into her squishy armchair and tried to look nonchalant. "Well, it's all because the Dursleys are prats," she said simply, waving her hand in a pompously casual and dismissive manner.

He smiled at her, in a patronizing sort of way. "Now, now, Ms. Polkiss. The first step we need to take here is learning how to shoulder some of the blame. You and I both know that that's not why you're here. Now why don't you tell me what happened."

Gillian thought about this. What harm could it do to tell him the truth? He would only think she was lying. "Well, okay then. I was headed home one evening, when Piers ran up to me and got ready to knock my jaws about something. So I walked away and went and sat on a swing in the park. That's when I heard raised voices. People yelling, like they were afraid. So I went to see what was the matter. I ran onto Magnolia Crescent, where I saw two people, teenagers, but I couldn't make out there faces, and then" now she paused and gulped remembering the 'and then', now too caught up in her own story to stop, "and then, everything just went sort of cold. Froze sort of, and there was no noise but their yells. Then I got this horrible feeling that something was staring at me, and I heard this really faint noise, like a rattle.

"And I felt a terrible wave of fear. I felt sick, like everything happy in the world was gone forever. And cold. Very, very cold. And then, it lessened, it was almost as though I could watch the cold, some sort of sick shadow go after the other two. I had fallen on my knees, and I watched them for a while. And suddenly, there were these flashes, kind of like an illuminated silvery mist. It lit up their faces. And I saw that it was Dudley Dursley, and behind him, where the mist had come from, was Harry Pot-" but her words were cut off as Dr. Clark coughed suddenly into his coffee, spilling it down his front.

"Oh!" he said, "Silly me! Don't know what came over me!" but he sounded scared, and as though he knew exactly what was wrong. "Er...um...and then what happened?' he prompted.

"Ok," she said, confused. "Well, like I said, it was Harry Potter. And the light vapor appeared a few times. The..._thing…_shadows, I guess, had stopped moving toward him, but his cousin seemed to crumple and yelped. Then, and this was strange, his head suddenly jerked up and then…raised…slowly, and his mouth opened. Even though it looked like he was fighting himself! At this point, I couldn't watch any more. I crawled into an alley nearby, and I guess I sort of fainted. And while I was like that, I saw a silver stag, and I heard voices. Someone had come to them, and was helping them now. A woman. I don't know who it was. It was kind of like their voices were just...invading on my dreams," she stopped and shivered.

"Here, dear," said Ted, and he handed here a small piece of chocolate.

She took it, and ate it absentmindedly, and felt warmth start to spread through her again. "Miss Polkiss," said the doctor, "I think your parents are right. You must try to forget this. I don't think this is something you should trouble yourself over." Gillian gaped, and started to retort, but he held up a hand, silencing her. "It is the best way for this to clear up. I don't think that this needs to be taken any further, inside or outside of my office. You do not need to come back if you don't want to. I'll tell your parents this. No, if you will excuse me, I must go talk with them..."

"Wait!" cried Gillian. "Harry Potter, that name meant something to you! I could tell! What do you know about him? Tell me! Please!"

Dr. Clark smiled down sadly at her. "All I know about Harry Potter is that he is a very disturbed boy. Thank you my dear. You may leave now."

Gillian left his office grudgingly and didn't talk to anybody the whole ride home. She never went back to the doctor.


	5. Wands and Wizards

Four days after all of this, Gillian's life changed dramatically.

Gillian hadn't been normal (not even her normal) since that night. She was more distant than before and she hardly ever slept; she always had terrifying dreams of the graveyard. She didn't know how to stop them. Every night she would start somewhere new in the dream and see just a little bit more than she had the night before.

She almost never left her room now. Before, she would leave the house all day, and only come back late at night to sleep, but she was too scared to go outside anymore. She didn't trust shadows.

The biggest change, though, was Gill's obsession with Harry Potter. He invaded her every thought and her dreams every night. He seemed to have strolled into her life, stomping all the way and leaving deep prints behind, and had then walked out again, with no explanation.

It was four days later, though, that Gillian left the house again. It was late, but her parents let her go, happy to see her leaving her room again. She didn't know why she left on this night. She just knew that if she stayed in that room any longer she would drown in her own thoughts. She didn't pay attention to where she was going, but she still found herself in front of the Dursleys' house. It made sense to her that she should come here, though she didn't mean to. It did contain the person who had been unknowingly consuming all the waking and sleeping hours or her life. Gillian was standing outside the house, considering the door, when she heard a sudden crash from inside, followed by people talking. Many people. The streetlights suddenly flickered on, and she saw several people silhouetted through the window. They were all wearing robes and one or two had large pointed hats.

Gillian snuck into the garden and sat under a large Hydrangea bush, listening to the people through the open window.

"He'll be upstairs," said a male voice, "I'll go and fetch him."

"Right you are," said a second, eager voice.

But Gillian heard no footsteps. The first voice muttered something quietly, and there was a sound of a door opening upstairs. She had to see what was going on. She stood up, crouching, still, and peeked through the window. No less than nine people were standing in the kitchen at the bottom of some stairs. They actually were all wearing long, robes, mostly black, and to were wearing what appeared to wizard hats. She might have found this funny in any other situation, but they all seemed too serious to be funny. She looked up the stairs and saw that a heavily bolted, drag chained, and otherwise locked door had been thrown open. Standing in the frame, illuminated by the lights of the street that seemed to pour onto him like a spotlight, was Harry Potter… and he was holding a—

"Lower your wand, boy, before you take someone's eye out," said a low, growling sort of voice.

"Professor Moody?" said Harry, uneasily.

"I don't know much about 'Professor', never got round to much teaching, did I? Get down here, we want to see you properly."

Gillian watched Harry in wonder as his wand (her heart leapt at the word) lowered slightly, but he didn't move. "It's all right, Harry. We've come to take you away."

She watched Harry relax and lower his wand. "P-Professor Lupin? Is that you?"

"Why are we all standing in the dark?" said a woman's voice. Gillian turned to look at her, interestedly. "_Lumos_."

Gillian almost cried out in surprise. This woman was also holding a wand, and when she had said the word the tip had lit brightly, lighting up the whole room. Gill could see the whole scene clearly now. At the head was a graying man, with very tattered robes, but an inviting smile. There was a tall black man, bald and with an earring, looking curiously up the steps. One short man, with an eager expression, who looked like some sort of terrier, waiting for a treat; a black-haired woman, with a pink face; a semi-tall, square-jawed man; an old, silvery-haired man another woman in emerald green. It was an eclectic arrangement of people, but they all—every one of them—were staring at Harry.

The woman with the lit wand had purple, spiky hair, dark eyes, and very pale skin. But she wasn't even the most shocking. The person Gillian now recognized as the gruff voice addressed as 'Moody' was short with long hair and a very scarred face. But, even more unsettling, were his eyes. One was small and brown while the other was large and shockingly blue, whizzing around in his head.

Gillian gasped, and ducked down under the bush again, pressing herself as flat to the ground as she could manage. That eye made her nervous. She would have to settle for listening now. "Oooh, he looks just like I thought he would," said the woman with the lit wand. "Wotcher, Harry!"

"Yeah, I see what you mean. Remus. He looks exactly like James," a booming voice said.

"Except for the eyes," said a woman. "Lily's eyes."

"Are you quite sure it's him, Lupin? It'd be a nice lookout if we bring back some Death Eater impersonating him," said the scarred man. "We ought to ask him something only the real Potter would know. Unless anyone brought any Veritaserum?" (This confused Gillian, because she had seen Harry, and he was quite obviously himself. Also, what was a Death Eater? And Veritaserum? She strained her ears even harder.)

"Harry, what form does your Patronus take?" asked the tattered man.

"A stag," she heard Harry answer.

Gillian had to hold back another gasp. A stag! She had seen a stag in the alleyway when she had fainted! That's what a Patronus was! That stag, it was something that he had made! She felt her heartbeat escalate.

"That's him, Mad-Eye."

She heard footsteps down the stairs, then, suddenly, "Don't put your wand there, boy! What if it ignited? Better wizards than you have lost buttocks, you know!" said the gruff voice.

"Who d'you know who's lost a buttock?" asked the purple-haired woman interestedly.

"Never you mind, you just keep your wand out of your back pocket! Elementary wand safety, nobody bothers about it anymore... And I saw that."

"How are you?" asked the one called Remus.

"F-fine..." answered Harry. "I'm--you're really lucky the Dursleys are out..."

"Lucky, ha! It was me that lured them out of the way. Sent a letter by Muggle post telling them they'd been shortlisted for the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition. They're heading off to the prize-giving right now... Or they think they are," laughed the woman with purple hair.

Gillian wasn't too caught up in it all to notice the word 'Muggle' with interest.

Harry asked, "We're leaving, aren't we? Soon?"

"Almost at once," said Professor Lupin, "we're just waiting for the all-clear."

"Where are we going? The Burrow?"

"Too risky. We've set up headquarters somewhere undetectable. It's taken a while... This is Alastor Moody, Harry."

"Yeah, I know."

"And this is Nymphadora--"

"_Don't_ call me Nymphadora, Remus," said the young, woman with the lit wand. "It's Tonks."

"--Nymphadora Tonks, who prefers to be known by her surname only."

"So would you if your fool mother had called you 'Nymphadora'," muttered Tonks. Gillian silently agreed.

"And this is Kingsley Shacklebolt---Elphias Doge---Dedalus Diggle--"

"We've met before!" said the excitable, terrier-like man.

"--Emmeline Vance---Sturgis Podmore---and Hestia Jones. A surprising number of people volunteered to come and get you," finished Remus amusedly.

"Yeah, well, the more the better," said Mad-Eye.

"We're just waiting for the signal to tell us it's safe to set off," said Lupin. "We've got about fifteen minutes."

Gillian tried to stop her heart from beating so fast. Despite her fascination, she still knew that she shouldn't be there. It was too risky to stay there for the next fifteen minutes. They seemed to be trying to conduct themselves secretly, and something told her that they all had wands that could do more than light up or burn off someone's buttocks.

Gill crept quietly out of the bush and around the corner of the house. She couldn't hear them, anymore, but she hoped to catch a glimpse of them when they left. She waited for about ten minutes before they all came outside, one by one, each of them carrying..._broomsticks_. She could see them from where she stood, but she was confident that they wouldn't see here unless they knew where to look.

"Clear night. Could've done with a bit more cloud cover. Right you--" Moody spat, turning to...nothing it appeared at first. But when Gillian looked closer, she saw a strange flickering glimmer in the air—and Harry's outline. She gaped at him. He looked like his insides had been turned invisible but his outline was still there. "--we're going to be flying in close formation. Tonks'll be right in front of you, keep close to her tail. Lupin'll be covering you from below. I'm going to be behind you. The rest'll be circling us. We don't break ranks for anything, got me? If one of us gets killed--"

"Is that likely?" asked Harry.

Gillian looked on. Killed? Who would want to kill them? And flying? They really could fly on brooms? Gillian's excitement was almost too much. Despite the last ominous comment, she wanted to jump out from her hiding place, run forward, and beg them to take her with them.

"--the others keep flying, don't stop, don't break ranks. If they take out all of us and you survive, Harry, the rear guard are standing to take over; keep flying east and they'll join you."

Gillian could hardly believe it. Harry was eitherobviously very important or in extreme danger. Or both/ She couldn't believe that somebody like this had been living so close to her, and she never knew…St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, they had told her! She was lost in marveled thought, when, suddenly, she saw red sparks fly up into the air overhead. "Mount your brooms, that's the first signal!" yelled Lupin.

Gillian peeked around the corner of the house and saw them all swing one leg over their brooms; Tonks with some difficulty as Harry's trunk was attached to the bottom. Green sparks. "Second signal, let's go!"

And with extraordinary speed, they shot into the air. They were some hundred feet ahead in no time. Gillian ran out from behind the house, and stared in amazement as they began racing off. Gillian thought she could see one of them turn their heads, and a blue flash, not unlike Moody's eye, but she couldn't be sure. All she knew was that they suddenly veered off to the left and were out of sight.


	6. Summer Magic

_Imagine that you just discovered the most beautiful secret of your self-potential. Imagine you've discovered a new level of existence, platforms above any high realm of living you've ever experienced. Imagine you've discovered it…and can't possibly reach it. And not only can you not reach it, but it's been taken away from sight. Beauty…gone.  
_Gillian put away her journal with a heavy sigh. It definitely wasn't helping. Her parents had been taking her to a psychiatrist again. But, to her dismay and her parents' confusion, Dr. Clark had refused to treat her. She had been forced to visit some ignorant, tragic woman every week who lapped up anything that bought into her new age techniques.

During her first visit Gill had almost walked out. Dr. Samson, or Suzy, as she insisted Gillian call her, was an older woman trying desperately to look 30 with hair bleached to a frizz, spider eye lashes, blue eye shadow and a VERY red lipstick.

And, apparently, suits were too old. She was wearing a hot pink track suit when Gillian met her.

Gillian despised Suzy, and had told her parents so on several occasions. But they were absolutely convinced that it was the best thing for her.

It was probable, Gillian thought, that she wasn't being completely fair to Suzy. After all, she was looking for unhappiness, almost. She just could imagine being happy or satisfied in this place when she knew there were greater things out there. And Suzy was possibly the most grounding and ordinary person she had met.

Gill had been doing worse in school than usual. Even her English teacher expressed concern about her slipping concentration and the constant dark themes in her writing.

She spent the majority of her time in the creaky, dusty attic, too. She had cleared out the area slightly to be her own safe haven since nobody was safe from Dudley anymore. During the task of cleaning the space Gillian had made a discovery: an old flute. It was in a tattery old brown leather case, but the flute itself was in impeccable shape besides the need to be shined. During her hours in the attic, Gill had been writing in her journal and, more often, learning to play the flute. She discovered that the instrument was fairly easy for her. She had had no trouble making sound and had worked out most major scales without aid within a week. She spent most of her time, now, making new songs that she logged away in her head.

Her songs were different than her writing. Her writing was always dark and painful, feeling lonely and outcast. Her music, though, flowed naturally from something deeper. Gillian just closed her eyes and a new world burst forth from the flame of colors that dances behind your lids, creating beautiful, incredible creatures, painting pictures of the impossible and the wondrously ordinary in a place beyond imagination. And Gillian played their songs, and when she opened her eyes she saw the places and creatures and people dance into life around her.

And as the weather turned, the attic began to swelter and Gillian was forced to take her music elsewhere.

Besides, she wanted to be prepared for whatever summer might bring.

You never knew when Harry Potter would be back.

Gillian sat cross-legged in the slightly wooded, undeveloped area behind the park, flute to her lips as she shut her eyes and began to drink in the sights as patches of sun and shade simultaneously warmed and cooled her skin in feathery kisses of wind.

As she blew the first note, the first note of summer and freedom and magic and peace, she a heard rustling and gasp behind her that wasn't from the otherworld. Her eyes flicked open and she spun around as the hazy image of a unicorn cleared form her eyes.

Standing behind her, looking awestruck, was Mrs. Figg.

Everyone knew Mrs. Figg. She was something of an oddity for the sleepy English suburb; a wild-looking old lady with far too many cats.

Gillian knew Mrs. Figg because her parents had learned about her as a sitter through the Dursleys. The old woman had sat for her and Piers many times when they were younger.

Now the old woman was staring rapturously at the flute in Gill's hands.

There was a long silence, during which Mrs. Figg's eyes never left the flute.

Mrs. Figg was the first to break the silence. "That," she said with a teary voice, "was the only magic I've ever known."

'Magic', thought Gillian, staring down at the flute. 'Magic…'


	7. The Veil

Gillian sipped at the chipped room of a tea cup, not actually drinking. She sat across the table from Mrs. Figg, who was staring at her with a fiery intensity. "So when did you first realize that you had the magic?" asked the old lady.

Gill puzzled with the question. The magic…well, she always knew that she wasn't ordinary, and she had always felt a little…powerful. But magic? Magic…like flying broom and conjuring silvery stags and using a wand…no. No, she wasn't magical like that.

"I'm not magic," she told Mrs. Figg. "Well, not really. I mean…" she though hard, "I think I'm just a little magical. Like, slightly more than most."

Mrs. Figg shook her head. "No, it was an irrational question. If you had any magic you would have been invited to the school. You're just more…_aware_ of the magic around you."

"So how did you see what I was seeing? I thought it was just my imagination."

Mrs. Figg nodded. "I believe it was. But I'm also more in tune with the magic world. You just played...so perfectly. That sound was the musical equivalent to drawing a picture. For those of us who can interpret the sound…can understand it means something magical…I guess it just makes us all imagine that world."

Mrs. Figg closed her eyes and breathed in a raspy way, visibly upset. "But," she said, shaking her head energetically and smiling. "I leave that sort of thing to greater thinkers. I'm just a Squib so I can't really hope to understand magic."

"A squib?"

"Oh, yes. That's way I know about magic. My parents were. I'm not. Heck, my cats are more magical than me," she said, bending down to pet a plump tabby.

"What about me?" asked Gill.

"I don't know. I mean, if you're adopted then it's hard to say, isn't it?"

Gillian nodded, sadly realizing that her past was posing a real problem for the first time. She fingered the edge of her cup.

"Don't worry about it, hun," said Mrs. Figg reassuringly. "We'll figure it out."

Gillian nodded a little vacantly. She wasn't actually paying attention to Mrs. Figg anymore. Her mind had taken another journey, and was walking through a great stone hallway with torches and moving portraits and armor…Gill was far away at her mind's nighttime home.

She liked this place, she thought as she journeyed down the hallway, her mental self running fingers along the stones. Why do they have to hide this place from me?

"Gillian…?" asked Mrs. Figg worriedly from miles, nay, worlds away,

"What?" said Gill, jerking out of her mind and sharply back to the smell of stale dust and moth balls or Mrs. Figg's house.

"I asked if you would like some cake."

"Oh," said Gill, "No thank you. Say, do you know Harry Potter?"

Mrs. Figg looked at her. "Why? Do you?"

"Well, yes. I mean, no. I mean…I know he's…magic. But I haven't really met him."

"Well, I'm not saying anything. I've probably said too much already. That's between you and him," said Mrs. Figg. "You may get a chance to ask him some questions yourself, soon. He should be home today."

Gillian stood in front of the Dursley's house, flute parts tucked into one of the many pockets of her pants.

She didn't know what she would say. She just knew she needed to talk to him. He had been the focal point of her life for nearly a year now, and he didn't even know it.

So she waited across the street, knowing she looked terribly suspicious to neighbors and passersby, who didn't trust her already.

But she didn't care. She had to talk to him. After an hour, she sat cross-legged on the sidewalk.

She was getting tired, despite her nerves. She hadn't been sleeping well, lately. She dreamed to vividly to get any rest.

And Gillian had an idea. She felt into her pocket and took out the flute pieces, fitting them gently together. She knew this had to look extremely strange, but she didn't really care. The Dursleys weren't home, which meant that Dudley was away and Piers wouldn't be out. She didn't care about getting caught by anyone else; they wouldn't hurt her.

So, she started to play. She played softly, mostly just blowing a little air, so that no solid sound came out. She closed her eyes and tried to hear the notes changing in the breathy tones. She was seeing just the dimmest, blurriest image of people. They appeared to be in a car, and, although she couldn't see well, she was sure one of the shadowy figures was Harry.

Gill opened her eyes and put the flute down. A car…that didn't seem very magical. That probably meant that he was on his way home with the Dursleys. She probably wouldn't have long; she couldn't see the Dursleys making a long trip to get him. She stood up and started to pace.

So she continued to wait, her hearting jumping excitedly into her throat every time she heard a car engine, only to be disappointed as it passed by.

And then she heard an engine, and watched the car pull into the Dursleys house. Gill made like she had just been walking by. She didn't want them to think she had been staked out waiting for them. But she made sure not to walk too fast. She wanted to be sure she saw him.

And there he was. Stepping out of the car…and looking like he didn't even know he was doing it. Gillian slowed her steps a little more. She didn't really know Harry well, but she was sure she had never seen him look like this. He looked…removed. Like he didn't even know he was alive.

She got worried, and decided she would have to visit just as soon as possible. She went to the park, and sat on a swing, forcing herself to stay a little while, so as to not look suspicious.

About fifteen minutes later, she walked back to the Dursley's and saw that the car seemed unpacked and everyone was inside.

She went up to the door and knocked. 'Okay,' she thought, 'this is it. They probably won't want me to see him, but I've got to try...'

Gillian heard someone yelling inside, and the door opened, and Gill was shocked to see Harry standing there.

"Oh," she said. She hadn't expected to speak with him so soon. "Oh…hi Harry. Um—my name is Gillian. Gillian Polkiss."

She had expected some reaction when he heard her name and put together that she was Piers' sister, but Harry barely blinked.

"Um..." she was completely thrown off. She didn't know what to say or how to react to his complete….lack of reaction.

"Harry, who is it?" yelled Mr. Dursley from another room. Harry didn't even respond to him.

"Well, I was just thinking—I mean, we're kind of neighbors…no, that's not what I mean…uh…"

And when she was met with further silence, she gave up on finding any potentially tactful approach.

"Here," she said, suddenly grabbing hi wrist, pulling him out the door and shutting it behind him. "Listen," she said.

And she took the flute out of her pocket, sat in front of him and started to play.

But this was the first time her song wasn't beautiful. It was dark and disturbed, embodying screams and confusion and darkness and death.

She wanted to stop playing, but she fell entranced by the horror, and as she closed her eyes, she saw…a veil…and she heard screams around her, felt fear, and a terrible, burning pain in her chest as she fell…into the veil…and…

"Stop!" Harry screamed, and hit the flute out of her hands, grabbing her arm, chest heaving.

Gillian was startled…too confused to be scared of Harry.

"Harry…I know," she said.

And Harry threw her wrist away and turned his back on her. "You don't know anything," he snarled.

But Gillian was sure that she heard a sob in his voice.

She did know.

She knew about wizards.

She knew about Harry.

She knew about Voldemort.

She knew about Sirius.


	8. Checking In

Gillian didn't know what to do now that she knew all she did. She didn't know how to talk to Harry, how to comfort him. He was experiencing pain like she had never even contemplated. So, she ran. She ran all the way home, arms thrown in front of her and she darted and dashed through veils that jumped in front of her. She knew…she knew.

Gill ran through her front door, throwing it open, startling her parents, but she didn't stop. She ran straight up to the attic, battling through a veil at the doorway. She began tossing through boxes, searching desperately…she had to find it…where was…where was…

Her journal. She found it and began tearing out the pages. Tearing out all the memories of every pretentious pain she'd ever felt. All the drama all the darkness and everything she'd felt…it was so embarrassing. She cried in shame over her ignorance as she tore apart the pages of a fakeness she'd never known she possessed. She had wanted to be a sad, dark person, angry with the world, in constant turmoil over the plainness of everything…and how comforting plain actually was.

Ever since she learned about magic, ever since she began playing flute, it had all seemed so perfect. Wands, broomsticks, castles, unicorns…wonderful things she had fantasized in childhood, come to life. But, five seconds in Harry Potter's head, in Harry Potter's life…

Gill collapsed onto her hands and began to sob, laying down and curling up on the shredded stories of loneliness and depression. She would never, never fancy herself depressed again. She would never again think her life dull. When her parents walked upstairs and found her curled up and sobbing in the papers scraps, her mother rushed over to her, holding her and stroking her hair as Gill sobbed into her chest, grabbing at her mother's shirt in convulsions.

Mr. Polkiss looked on for a minute before disappearing from the room. Gillian continued sobbing and shaking until, exhausted, she fell asleep on the attic floor.

Gillian woke up in a very, very white room. She closed her eyes, angry and irritated at the dull pain caused by the brightness on her unprepared eyes. She opened them again, blinking a few times, before turning and noticing her mother beside her, holding her hand.

"Where am I?"

Her mother smiled weakly, unashamed of the tear streaks in her makeup. "You're at a hospital, darling," she said sweetly. "We brought you here."

"Oh," Gillian said, turning her head away and staring at the ceiling. "And…why am I at the hospital?"

Her mother squeezed her hand. "You're sick, honey. I know you don't want to admit it, but you are."

Gillian bolted up in the bed. "What kind of hospital are we at?"

"You don't understand how hard it is to watch on when you're in pain. To see your daughter wasting away, growing distant…you don't understand. You will, some day. You'll know, then, that this was all for the best."

"What kind of hospital is this?" Gillian was yelling know, shoving of the blankets, and climbing out of the bed.

"Gill…"

"I want to know where I am!" it came out as a scream, shrill and cracking. A nurse hurried into the room, with the urgency of alarm and the composure of routine. Gillian knew exactly where she was.

"A…psych ward? You brought me to a looney bin? What the hell is wrong with you?" Gillian was hysterical, and she knew, in terms of proving sanity, she was doing a very poor job.

She saw the nurse suddenly produce a syringe.

"No!" she said, turning to the nurse. "No, I'm fine…really. I'll calm down. It's just…abrupt. Please, don't," she pleaded, "I want to know…why…how, first. Please?"

The nurse looked at Mrs. Polkiss, who nodded. The nurse set down the syringe in an exasperated manner, and left, hovering near the door outside.

"How did I get here? I don't remember coming…"

"Your…" she swallowed hard, "your father called the hospital. After you fell asleep, some people came. They gave you a sedative and drove you here. Your father and I dropped Piers off with the Dursleys and followed in the car."

"Dad…dad," she blinked back tears, "called the hospital? They…they drugged me?"

"I know it sounds bad…but, we agreed it was for the best. Don't worry, though. These people will help you. The doctor will be in to talk with you. They say…they say it's going to be harder to determine what's wrong since…we don't know who…your…real parents are," her dialogue was punctuated by tearless sobs as she sucked at her bottom lip between words.

"Oh." said Gillian. "Right."

There was a knock on the room door and a woman in a casual suit with a nametag pinned to her breast pocket and a gold chain holding a pair of square glasses around her neck like a piece of jewelry entered. She held a clipboard under one arm and a mug of tea in the other, the string and tag of the tea bag hanging over the edge. "Good day, Gillian, Mrs. Polkiss," she said.

"Ah…" thought Gillian as she heard the voice. "An American. That explains the bad tea."

"How are we doing today?"

Neither of them answered. It seemed a rather ridiculous question to be asked after being drugged and dragged into a psych ward.

"Ah," said the doctor, noticing their slightly bewildered expressions. "Right."

She pulled up a chair next to Gillian's bed, and set down her tea on the table next to her, taking her clipboard and flipping through the pages.

"Um, Mrs. Polkiss," she said, "Might I ask you to leave? I like to speak with Gillian alone."

Miss Polkiss nodded, taken off guard, and exited the room.

"Right," said the doctor, setting down the clipboard and turning to Gillian. Gillian looked at her curiously, wondering what was to come, when…

"Your nose!" said Gillian suddenly.

The doctor…Dr. Tinker, Gillian read…looked at her curiously, her eyes opening wide in amusement. "Yes, dear?"

"It…changed…" and Gillian got an idea.

She looked at the woman, closed her eyes and began to hum. Nothing.

Dr. Tinker looked amused and…different.

Gillian was very confused. Was the woman's hair suddenly…lighter?

Dr. Tinker smiled. "I believe I'll stop messing with you now," she said. With that, the woman's hair and nose suddenly changed back to…normal?

"How did you do that?" Gillian gasped.

Dr. Tinker chuckled. "Very easily. Although, I wouldn't suggest trying it. But, you noticed. I know what I need to know."

"You're one of them, aren't you?"

The woman smiled and funny, crooked little smile. "I don't know what you mean," she said with a wink. "I don't think you'll need to stay here. I'll tell your parents to stop worrying," she stood up to leave, grabbing her clipboard and her tea, taking a sip and scrunching her nose. "Ew."

"Wait," Gillian called as the woman began to exit the room. The woman paused. "What do you know about Harry Potter?"

The woman smiled, sadly, and left the room without a word.

Gillian was home by that night, but things weren't the same. Her parents spoke quietly or not at all when she was near, which was fine, she didn't want to talk. But they also didn't leave her alone. They seemed afraid of her and more afraid of what were happen if she were left on her own. Gillian found it hard to deal with their constant attention, as she was much more accustomed to being ignored.

Eventually, though, their interest ebbed as she failed to act in any interesting manner. They seemed put off by the fact that she didn't suddenly break into maniacal laughter or something similar.

Luckily, though, Piers didn't bother her anymore. He seemed scared of her. She had a funny feeling that their parents had warned him she was unstable. Well, that suited her fine. For now, she was only waiting. Waiting for her parents to lose interest completely again. To grow sloppy enough in their guard that she might leave the house, and, once again, find Harry Potter.

Now, she knew what to say.


	9. Meeting the Phoenix

It was only a few weeks before summer ended and she would be thrown back into school that Gillian felt it was finally safe to leave her house again without her parents dogging her footsteps. She was nervous about the whole ordeal, still, but she knew it was important that she speak with Harry before he left. One year ago…

It was one year ago this very day that Harry had mysteriously flown off into the night sky with an odd assortment of people…and Gillian was going to let him get away this time.

As her parents dressed to go out that evening to a dinner party at her father's work, Gillian snuck up into the attic to find her flute, which she had left there the day her parents checked her in to the mental ward. She found the pieces, lying dusty on the floor, and lovingly polished them off while checking them for any bent keys, missing pads, or similar problems the flute may have procured during its span of undignified disuse on the attic floor.

Gently, and as softly as she could, Gill closed her eyes and raised the assembled flute to her lips, warbling out just one soft, sweet note, sharp and smooth and lovely. And, all at once, a flame flickered in front of her eyes. She stopped quickly. This was a good piece, and she tried very hard to hold onto it. This is what she needed to play for Harry, and she couldn't lose it. Too impatient and afraid of losing the song to wait for her parents to leave, Gill ran to her room, silently, and shut her door.

Breathing deeply, she took the flute apart and put the pieces into her cavernous pockets. She focused as hard as she could on that note and the lick of flame as she opened her window and crawled out onto the roof below.

It wasn't a far drop, but it could be dangerous. Positioning herself as finely as she could, she lowered body down and pushed off the side of the house. She landed catlike on the ground below, and checked quickly to see if anything felt sore. After she verified that all was well, she took off behind the house, crossing over to the backdoors neighbor's street so her parents wouldn't catch her in front of the house.

It was difficult to keep hold of the fiery note in the cool, licking fingers of the evening breeze as the sun sank, but she put all her will into that one note. It was exactly what she wanted to say to Harry, exactly what could help him, she was sure.

She was running, not even entirely conscious of her path, she was so absorbed in the note. She was very relieved to find that her feet had, indeed, brought her to the Dursleys' house of their own accord. The Dursleys' car was gone, meaning they had left for the same party her parents were attending. Her father worked under Mr. Dursleys at Grunnings. Dudley should be headed over to her house even now, to drink himself stupid with Piers on their parent's vodka. Which meant Harry would be alone.

She walked up and knocked tentatively on the door. Would he even answer? She screwed up her resolve and stood taller…even if he wouldn't answer, she would find a way to him. Knocking louder, Gillian made sure there could be no mistaking her presence. She heard footsteps inside coming down the stairs, and saw a dark figure pass by the doorside window. There was a long pause.

"He's seen me," thought Gillian, "and he doesn't know if he wants to answer the door."

"Harry, open up!" Gillian called out, knocking again, "This is important!"

A few more seconds of apprehension followed before the door opened slowly and Harry Potter stuck his head out, looking at her with a look of mixed apathy and curiosity, a combination hard to pull off. "Yes?"

"Harry," said Gillian, realizing this had suddenly become much more difficult than she anticipated. "Please…I'm Gillian. Um. Just, please…listen."

She took the flute pieces out of her pockets, fumbling with the zipper for a moment, her suddenly clammy hands working worriedly to put the instrument together. She looked up at Harry desperately to make sure he hadn't gone away.

Then, sitting cross-legged on the step in front of the half open door, she focused on the note as hard as she could, willing the fire to come through despite the heavy influence of Harry's dreary aura. To her surprise, it was not difficult to find the flame after she pushed through the cold wetness of the rest of it. And, inhaling deeply, she played.

Without warning, the flame burst like fireworks, crackling and spitting, ashes flying wildly into the air and raining down. It was not destructive, though…this fire was far more romantic. And Gillian saw, through the flames, the silhouette of a magnificent, orange and gold-feathered bird, it's wings spread majestically as it soared, soared, soared…

And Harry interrupted Gillian. He was laughing…or crying? She looked up at him and found it to be an odd mixture of both. It wasn't mirth or lament, but a sort of bitterness of a melancholic wit. She just watched him, his eyes screwed up and tears leaking as he sobbed and gasped and laughed all at once. Then, standing on instinct and warning, she put her arms around Harry just as he started to fall, and came to her knees with him in her arms, his head buried in the crook of her neck, and his hands clutching desperately at her shirt.

"Shh," she whispered, stroking his back with one hand and holding his head with the other, "it's alright…"

Harry looked up at her, eyes wide and bloodshot, but smiling. "Wow, you have really got the whole reborn phoenix thing wrong."

Gillian sat in a large, white armchair in a stiff looking room, looking interestedly around her. She picked at a snag in the knee of her pants and bounced her legs, unaware of her fidgeting.

Harry entered the room with two cups of tea, watching her with a look of wonder. "I've brought some tea," he said with an edge of unease, apparently unsure of what such a situation called for. Gillian jumped slightly in her seat before rising to take the cup from him. "Yeah…thanks."

They stared at each other for a moment, both at a loss for words.

"So—"

"I was wondering—" they began at the same time.

Gillian looked away bashfully, so Harry continued. "I was wondering what exactly you know," he said, nervously. "I…don't want to be rude or anything. It's just all very…strange. Sudden. Here I hardly know you, and thought you were a muggle, and here it turns out—"

"Oh, I am a muggle," said Gillian abruptly. "I mean, I think I am. Well, maybe. I don't know. Um," she seemed to realize that she was not speaking very coherently and seemed upset with herself for speaking up on the matter. "Well, the thing is, I'm adopted. And…well, Ms. Figg seems to think I might be a squib…"

"Oh," said Harry, "Oh, I'm…sorry…" he seemed to try to bite back the words as soon as he said them. "No, no I didn't mean it like that. I didn't mean it at all…I mean…"

Gillian saved him from his embarrassing apology and smiled warmly at him. He went quiet and, slowly, smiled back. Theys tood like that for a while, grinning g stupidly at each other, before they both realized what they were doing and looked away quickly.

"This is so strange," said Harry, partially to himself.

Gillian nodded. "I promise you," she said, "this all has been a lot more strange for me than it is for you. I had a normal perception of the world and my place in it, and then, suddenly, poof! Wands, and broomsticks, and Harry Potter, and magic…"

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, I had about the same problem a few years ago. It can be a bit…overwhelming."

Gillian looked taken aback. "How did you have the same problem? Have you always been a…you know? Um…magic?" she said, at a loss for words.

"A wizard," said Harry, helpfully. "And, yes. Sort of. You're born with magic, that is. But I didn't know anymore than you a few years back. It was all kind of thrown at me at once."

Gillian was surprised…how could you be magic and not know about magic? "How could you be magic and not now about magic?" she asked.

"Well," explained Harry, "it's really not that uncommon, what with muggle-borns and all—"

At this, Gillian's mouth fell open and she gaped at him…

"Muggle-borns? There are muggle-borns?"

"Oh," said Harry, "well, yes. About the opposite of a squib, you know?"

"Are you a muggle-born?"

"No," said Harry.

"The Dursleys aren't…!"

"No!" said Harry quickly, laughing a little. "No…of course not! My parents were…"

"Oh, right," said Gill. She had forgotten that Harry was an orphan like her. "Harry," she began, at last, "Why does everyone know you? I mean…why are you famous? And what's the whole…veil…thing…"

She looked up nervously to see if she had gone too far. Harry's brow had, indeed, darkened, and his eyes had gone glassy and distant. But he did not look angry. He looked like he was going to speak…


	10. Stargazing

Harry told her about his past. About Voldemort, and his parent's deaths. He told her about the Sorcerer's stone, the chamber of secrets, the triwizard tournament…but, even as Gillian recognized pieces of what he said…heard things she recognized from her dreams, she knew something was missing…

"Harry?" Gillian asked, apologetically, when he had talked himself silent. He was still looking away, his shoulders shaking a little. "Harry…I don't mean to be rude. But you're not telling me something…"

Harry turned back to her, looking a little irritated. Gillian thought she may have crossed the line. So what if he wasn't telling her something? It was his story, not hers, and it wasn't as though she had any right to demand it from him…

"Er, right," said Gill. "Look, it's just that…you seemed to get really upset at things that didn't seem that big…like…um, when you mentioned that one teacher of yours…um…Lupin? And, with the Order thing…although, you had reason to be upset about all of that, I guess…it's just—

"What about the veil?"

Harry couldn't meet her eyes. He looked away and bowed his head. Gillian saw his lips move, almost imperceptibly, and an almost inaudible whisper, "Sirius…"

Gillian knew now wasn't the time to ask. She walked over to Harry, put a hand on his shoulder, a little awkwardly, and said, briskly, "Why don't we go for a walk?"

It was dark out, and Gillian and Harry lay sprawled on sections of the merry-go-round. Harry was pointing out constellations and planets in the clear, star-spattered sky, while Gillian soaked in the absurdity of her situation.

They had long since stopped discussing the serious. This was, after all, their first real meeting, and they both seemed to decide that it had started far too black. So, they had slowed down. Gillian told him a bit about growing up with Piers, which led into a detailed and lively exchange between the two of them, as they swapped anecdotes. Now, quietly looking at the sky, Gillian discovered that, for the first time in her life, she felt close to somebody.

"Harry…"

"Yes?"

"I think I've met wizards, before."

"Really?" said Harry, interestedly. "Who?"

"Well…they were both doctors. One…Dr. Clark. He knew your name. He believed me when I told him about that night with you and your cousin. And then, this woman…Dr. Tinker. I know she knew about the wizarding world. It was strange…I remember she kept…changing."

"What do you mean, changing?" Harry had sat up, looking at Gillian now.

"Well, her nose…changed. Like, shape and size. And then her hair color. And when I asked her about it, she said it was easy, but I shouldn't try. And, that…since I had noticed, she knew what she needed to know."

Harry laughed. "An metamorphmagus."

"What's that?"

"It's a wizard or witch that can change their appearance at will. Very rare. And, coincidentally, I think I know her."

"You do?"

"Well, I'm just guessing. But, since they're so rare, and she chose to go by the name Tinker…well, I know a woman named Tonks who's an metamorphmagus. She's really wonderful."

"Oh, I'd love to meet her."

"You may yet."

"You think so?"

Harry looked at her. "Yeah. I don't know why, but I have a funny feeling that you're in for a lot more than you're expecting."

Gillian smiled, but did not manage to look away before her face fell.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry.

"It's just that, you really shouldn't get my hopes up like that. I'm trying to not be let down, which is really difficult given that situation. Everything's so awesome right now…I can't imagine that it will last."

Harry didn't say anything. A long silence persisted between them.

"I'm not going to stop talking to you."

Gillian looked over at Harry. For some reason, a weight in her chest lifted. "You won't?" she asked.

"No," he said firmly. "You are the only good thing I have here, at the Dursleys'. It's something I need."

Gillian smiled at him. "I'm glad to hear it."

They laid there for another hour, before Gillian, startled, realized how late it was, and, apologizing, ran back home. It had been an unforgettable night. Not only had she spoken, at last, to Harry Potter, and received answers to many pressing questions. No. She had also made a friend and been given a promise: he would keep talking to her. She would have a connection to the magic world.

When Gillian got home, her parents had been back for nearly thirty minutes and were ready to call the police to look for her. Gill barely heard any of the yelling. She was far away, in a small bedroom strewn with newspapers of moving pictures, as an owl hooted in a small, dirty cage.


	11. Runaway

Gillian woke up the next morning to a loud rapping on her bedroom window. She rolled over groggily, still half-asleep, and very angry with the incessant noise. She hadn't slept well the night before. She had gotten back late from her talk with Harry, and her parents had kept her up even later, yelling at her.  
When she finally realized that the noise was not going away and was, in fact, getting louder, she turned and looked out the window, squinting her eyes in adjustment. There was a large white blur…an owl!  
Gillian sprang out of bed, suddenly wide awake, sheets tangling around her ankles, and falling to the ground with a thunk. 'Quiet!' she thought to herself. She didn't want her parents to come running up the stairs. It couldn't be 6 in the morning, yet.

Walking over to the window, nursing her bruised knee, Gillian smiled as she recognized the bird. It was Harry's pet Hedwig. Gill opened the window, and the beautiful, snowy owl hopped in, offering out her leg, which had a piece of parchment attached.

Gillian untied the parchment from the owl's leg and looked around for something to give the bird for her troubles. Digging through yesterday's pants' pockets, she found a small chocolate candy. Could owls eat chocolate? Before she could remember, Hedwig swooped in and gently nipped the chocolate out of her hand. Well, never mind that, then. Hedwig certainly seemed to be of the belief that she could eat it.

Sitting back down on her bed and shuddering slightly in the night breeze the wafted in, Gillian opened the letter. In a frantic handwriting, she read:

_Gill!  
I've just received word that I'm to be leaving tomorrow! I know I haven't been home long _('Hadn't he?' Gillian thought. She realized that just because her school was starting soon didn't mean his was.) _but I don't have a choice! Frankly, I'm glad to be rid of the Dursleys. I'm going to be going off to the Burrow, my friend Ron's house. It's in Devon, outside of a small town called Ottery St. Catchpole along the River Otter. I'm risking a lot sending this to you, so send me something back with Hedwig that I'll know is you, and that this letter was intercepted! Burn this letter!_

Gillian sat in shock and read the letter over several times. Suddenly, in a snap decision, Gill jumped over to her closet, grabbed out her oversized backpack, and began cramming it with clothes. If Harry Potter was leaving…well then, she was leaving, too! She had already spent a year away from him, lonely and perceived as crazy. She couldn't handle that again!  
After filling her backpack, Gillian stopped and took a deep breath. 'Slow down, Gill,' she thought to herself. 'You have to send Harry something back!'  
Looking around her room, Gillian didn't see anything that would convince Harry that she was the one who had received the letter. 'What can I send…?' she thought desperately. It wasn't as though they had no each other very long. How could she convince him beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was, in fact, herself?

Then, it hit her.

Gillian ran to her desk and grabbed out one of the few salvaged pages from the journal she had torn to pieces. This journal entry was special. She scribbled down a quick note and called Hedwig over.

"Be careful, girl," whispered Gillian, stroking her feathers, and then sending the owl off.

Gillian watched her fly away, off to Privet Drive, before resuming her task of packing for a very long, very difficult trip.

_A stag, _said the note she sent.

On the back, the page read:

_I played a song, today. It was silvery and wispy, and I swear it had antlers. It made me feel happy, but also a little lost. It made me think of my parents…and made me wish more than ever that I knew who they were._

After re-sorting through her bag and taking out all the clothing that wasn't absolutely necessary, Gillian tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. It was a quarter 'til six. Her dad would be waking up soon to head to work, so she had to hurry.

Sifting through the cupboards, Gillian looked for all the non-canned nonperishable food she could: things that would be easy on the road. After she had loaded her bag full of bread, cheese, chips, and a few bottles of water, Gillian grabbed a chair and stood in front of the fridge.

The vacation fund stood in a large water jog on top of the refrigerator. They had been saving for nearly two years to go skiing this winter. The jug was full of spare change, with the occasional bill, sometimes even a twenty thrown in. It was with a very guilty conscience that Gillian pulled out all of the bills she could find. She had her own savings, but it amounted to barely a hundred pounds. She didn't know how long she would be on the road, or what she would do when she got where she was going (and she didn't exactly know where that was either), but she wanted to be sure she had enough money to take care of herself. She managed to scour out another hundred pounds. Gillian knew she could have taken more, but she just didn't feel right about it. Hopefully, after her train ticket, she would still be okay.

Pulling her backpack onto her shoulder and determinedly screwing up all her courage, Gillian simply walked out of the front door and out of her old life.

The sky was beginning to lighten as Gillian exited the neighborhood. She had spent all of the life she could remember there, but she wouldn't miss it. She was sure she would miss her parents…eventually. But right now, all she could think of was finding Harry. He probably hadn't even left yet, but he had magic to get him around. Gill only had her feet and the money in her pocket.

Walking down the main road, Gillian checked her watch outside of small, roadside diner. It was 7:30, and she was hungry. Her feet were starting to ache a little from walking on the uneven pavement. She decided to stop here. She could eat a little breakfast and then call a cab to take her to the train station.

Gillian entered the grubby place and took a seat at the bar. 7:30…they probably hadn't even noticed she was gone, yet. They'd probably think she was sleeping in. Thinking, she determined that she had until around 10:30 before her mother would send Piers to wake her up…and then they would realize she was gone.

Three hours was plenty to get to the train station and out of Surrey. Then, she would be in the clear. No one knew where she was heading.

Gillian patted her pocket experimentally, and felt the reassuring crunch of parchment. No one would know.

Gillian had not burned the note. She hadn't had time in her rush to leave, and she didn't want to forget where she was going. She would have to burn it outside.

"Can I get you something, miss?" asked the waitress.

"Yes, please. I'd like a cup of coffee, some toast, and a small bowl of porridge."

The lady nodded and started to walk away.

"Oh, one more thing!" said Gillian hurriedly. "May I have a spare slip of paper and borrow your pencil quickly?

The waitress smiled and nodded, handing the things to Gillian. Gill quickly scribbled down the address and shoved it in her pocket. "Thank you," she said, handing the things back.

Her food didn't take long, and she ate quickly. When the waitress came by with the check, Gill paid promptly, and asked if there was a phone she could use. "Of course," said the woman, pointing her over to the wall.

Gillian called the operator and was connected to a cab company. "I need a cab to pick me up at Melinda's Eatery in Little Whinging, please."

The cab only took ten minutes to get there, and she was at King's Cross before nine. Gillian paid the cab, and then went up to the ticket booth. "I need a ticket going to Devon for the soonest time, please."

The ticket man looked at her suspiciously. "Traveling alone, are you?"

"Yes sir," said Gillian. She'd been prepared for this. She had the story all worked out. "You see, sir, my parents were out visiting my grandmother in the hospitable. I was staying with a family friend. Only, I just got a call yesterday saying she had passed on," here Gillian let her eyes tear up a little, "and so my parents are having me go to Devon straight away for the funeral. The people I was staying with drove me here, but I have to get my own ticket. I'm supposed to call my parents as soon as I get the ticket and tell them what station and town I'll be getting off in and when, and they'll pick me up."  
The ticket man seemed a little taken back with all of this information. Gillian realized she may have said too much, but hoped he would just take it as a young girl overcome with emotions being a little too talkative. "Oh…I'm so sorry for your loss. There's a train leaving for Devon in just fifteen minutes, so you'll have to hurry to your platform. It'll be heading to Exeter, and will be about a 3 hour ride."

"Thank you," said Gillian, paying him and taking her ticket.

Thirty minutes later, Gillian was racing off on a train, not completely sure where she was heading or what she would do when se got there. All she knew was that she was sure she was doing the right thing.


	12. Ottery St Catchpole

The train pulled to the final stop of Gillian's journey. She was tired, but she had been unable to sleep on the train. She was all nerves and apprehension, now. She did not doubt that she had done the right thing, following Harry, but she wasn't sure what to do next. 

What had Harry wanted her to do? The question was plaguing her. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered whether or not he had actually expected her to follow him. She would have done it regardless, but it would complicate things a great deal if he didn't really want her there.

Everything Harry had told her...it sounded like he wasn't the kind of person to get anyone else involved in his problems, or, really, his life. He was scared of connecting with people. Which was particualrly unfortunate because, for being just a boy, he was incredibly charismatic. He didn't seem to realize it, but people really wanted to follow him. Everything he'd said...about Hermione, Ron, the DA...he was a leader, and he would have people to help fight for him wherever he went. It was the same with her. She barely even knew him, but she knew that uprooting her life to follow him was the right thing to do. Given, it was a particularly great life, but it was comfortable. Being on the road, alone, with no idea how to reach a goal you can't even visualize? That was not comfortable.

As Gillian exited the train, with only her backpack to accompany her. She'd never traveled alone before, and she'd never been this far away from home without her parents.

Gill winced. There it was...the guilt. She couldn't say for sure if that little pang she felt was her missing her parents or not, but there was certainly guilt in it. They probably would have discovered her missing by now. If they traced her to the train station (as the search for a runaway undoubtedly would) they'd encounter a ticket salesman who had sold a ticket to a lone teenage girl...who probably would stick out in his memory for her talkativeness and her particularly sad story.

Gillian kicked herself. Damnit, why had she made herself so memorable! Well, they were at least an hour or two behind her by the time they got to the trains tation, as she saw it. And the train ride was three hours. So, that was it. She had to keep moving, and be as discreet as possible while doing so.

Hitching her backpack higher onto her shoulder, Gillian set off. According to the map at the train station, Ottery St. Catchpole was about ten miles east of Exeter.  
Ten miles. It was about 11 o'clock. That was plenty of daylight for the journey, which she would hopefully be able to make within three hour. After that it would just be a matter of locating the Burrow...she would think about that little hurdle when it came up.-

So, she started walking. She tried to stick alongside the roads, while staying far enough back so as to not attract attention to herself.The weather was misty and a bit chilly, as it had been all summer, but not bad for the long hike. At least she wouldn't get to hot.

About two hours into her journey, her feet hurting her more than she thought they would, her shoulders aching from the backpack, Gill stepped a little further of road and took a break. It would cost her some time, but she needed it. She was getting hungry, too.

Pulling the bread and cheese out of her backpack, Gillian made herself a sparse lunch. She didn't want to be too liberal with her rations, considering she wasn't sure as of yet what her living situation would be like once she arrived.

After a fifteen minute break, she was on her feet again. It was slower going now. She was aching all over, and was actually getting a stitch in her side from all of the walking. Gill couldn't remember the last time she had walked this far, but she hadn't thought that she was this out of shape! She made a note to herself to try to be more active from now on, although she had a funny feeling that that wouldn't be too difficult.

About an hour and a half later, she arrived at Ottery St. Catchpole.

Arrived, though, might be to definite a term. It wasn't so much a place you arrive as a place you suddenly realize you are. This was nothing like Magnolia Crescent, or even Little Whinging. Everything was spread out...she could walk for full minutes and not see another house, which was for more than she could say for the rabbit warren-like neighborhood she lived in.

It was beautiful, but it did mean she would have to walk that much further to get to the Burrow, which was supposed to be on the edge of all of this, closer to the River Otter.

It was still afternoon, but the sky was dark, and the mist that had plagued the country all summer was chilling her through to her bones, even through the extra layers she had added during her brief lunch break.

She walked through the town (if you could call it that) for another half hour, and was beginning to worry. She had no idea what to expect of the Burrow...not only the people or her reception, but also what the house itself would be. It was quite possible that she had already passed it and didn't even know!  
Harry had told her about the Burrow, though. He had made it sound so fantastic, surely she would have noticed it. It didn't sound like the kind of place one could just walk by without noticing. But, then, she wasn't a witch. Was it possible that she wouldn't be able to see it?

She shook off this possibility. She had always been good at seeing things other people couldn't. Surely she wouldn't be able to miss a _house_. Besides, she could probably just use her flute to find out what was...

Oh no. Her flute. Gillian, stopped, suddenly frantic. She had forgotten it! How could she forget her flute?!  
Gillian, overcome with exhaustion and frustration, fell to her knees.

This idea was stupid. Stupid. She didn't know where she was going, what she was going to do if she ever managed to get there, and now she didn't even have her flute!  
Maybe she was overreacting, but the flute seemed important to her. It had been her support. It had warmed her through. And now, for no reason, with no excuse, she had just left it behind in the flurry of a half-formed whim.

Tears welling in her eyes, a sob hitched painful in her throat, Gillian almost gave up. But, just then, she heard a loud _pop!_

She looked up and saw, to her amazement, a man standing some twenty yards away. A man who had certainly not been there before. And, just down the road from him...

It was the most unsturdy, shabby, and beautifully magical house she had ever seen. That had certainly not been there before, either.

Gillian shivered a little. She knew she ahdn't been seen...quite probably, no one knew she was there or anywhere nearby. But, for some reason, she had the sensation that someone was watching her. It was not an unpleasant sensation...it was warm, and felt much like it did to hold her flute in her hands.

As the man walked forward toward the house, Gillian watched, desperate not to lose sight of it, and quietly made her way toward it.

Here, surely, was the Burrow.

Here was where she would find Harry Potter._  
_


	13. A Walk and War

Gillian stood outside the house, confused as to what to do next. It was only now that she realized that she had never really believed that she would get this far. She kept expecting someone to turn up and ask her what she was doing, to send her back home. But here she was, successful and scared.

Taking a deep breath, she started walking towards the house.

"I don't think you want to do that," said a voice from behind her.

Gillian froze, her heart beating so hard she thought it might break out of her chest. "Harry is a very special boy…there's more protection on that house that I could fully relay to you in a weeks time. Also, if I told you everything about that house, I'm quite sure the Ministry would be angry with me."  
Gillian found her feet again and turned around slowly. Behind her was standing a tall, elderly man, wearing some odd leather boots and some very purple robes.

Gill had no idea what to say. Even after the shock of being unexpectedly, and so bluntly, addressed had worn off, she was still taken aback by the man himself. He was so…magical. He radiated the stuff. How he could stand right there, in the middle of the street in what was basically rural Southern England and not be noticed was beyond her comprehension. He stuck out far too much to be seen anywhere without particular notice.

"Miss Polkiss…come walk with me."  
Gillian didn't reply, but didn't need to. He had said "walk" and something in her caused her to immediately start walking, without any pause or contemplation.

"It's very strange, you know," said the fantastic man. "Arabella, that's Miss Figg to you, told me all about you. It's very strange that you know as much as you do. Why the Ministry hasn't swooped in and put a stop to it I cannot pretend to know for certain. Although I am rather sure that the Ministry is quite…distracted at the moment."  
The man stopped suddenly and turned to look down at Gillian, eyes twinkling. "Miss Polkiss…Gillian, if I may. I assume you have made acquaintance with Harry?"

Gillian nodded.

"He has told you much, then?"  
Gillian wasn't sure how to answer this question. She was sure Harry had opened up to her quite a bit, but there was no telling how much he still kept inside. "Well, he told me about Hogwarts, and Ron and Hermione, and Sirius, and a bit about the Ministry, and the prophecy, and about Voldemort. Quite a bit about him," she shivered. "And, of course, about Albus Dumbledore. He said almost quite as much about him."

The man smiled. "Well, you do seem well-informed."  
They started walking again, silently. "Sir?" Gillian ventured. He looked down at her. "Sir, if I may…you seem to know who I am, but I haven't the slightest who you are. If I may ask." She blushed a little. It seemed inappropriate to be so direct with an old and obviously powerful man.

"Oh my manners. Please, do call me Albus. Albus Dumbledore."

Gillian gaped. She didn't mean to, and she felt quite embarrassed when she reflected on the moment, but she simply couldn't believe it. This was Albus Dumbledore! This was the most powerful wizard in the world, the only person of whom Voldemort was afraid. It was surreal to be meeting him, to say the least.

"Now, Gillian, allow me to ask you a question." He stopped and rounded on her again. "Why, my dear, are you here?"  
Gillian stared. She had no idea, anymore. She didn't know what she expected to do, how she could possibly help…especially when Harry had people like this protecting him. "I—I…Harry told me that, um…he'd be coming here. And I just wanted…well, I wanted to…" Gillian looked down at her feet, blushing, "help," She finished in a voice as big as an ant's.

To her surprise, Dumbledore did not laugh at her. Instead he smiled in a serious way. "Yes, Harry does have a way of inspiring people to help him, even if he doesn't mean to.

So, my dear, you want to help. There is a terrible war brewing, you know. I am sure that we can find a way for you to help…a way in which the rest of us would not be able to."  
Gillian looked at him in surprise. "My dear," Dumbledore chuckled, "there are some talents and ways of life which wizards are no good at. Some things take the ingenuity and finesse of a Muggle."

Gillian caught herself gaping again and quickly closed her mouth. "Or, as it were, a Squib."

Here she gasped. A Squib? Did he know something for sure, then? About her parents? Gillian made to ask when Dumbledore raised a hand and caught her off.

"Another time and place, Gillian. Right now it is approaching supper time, and I am quite hungry. There's a darling little pub just down the road that serves the best fish and chips," he said, gesturing down the road.

Gillian gasped. His hand was blackened and shriveled. Dumbledore followed her gaze to his hand. "Oh," he said, shaking down his sleeve and smiling. "Not to worry. Just a bit of a war wound, if you will. Come, we have much to discuss."  
And, as they walked down the road toward the pub, Gillian realized for the first time just how big this whole thing was that she had gotten herself into.

A war…


End file.
